Chapter 12 #2
I notice table sixteen—all the way in the front corner against the windows overlooking Main—has someone sitting in it, and I’m relieved when I see it’s Weston Grady. My sister’s brother-in-law, who I see at family dinner most every Sunday.
What isn’t a relief is realizing it’s in my section, and not Wanda’s. How long has he been there?
Hustling over to him, still with the last table’s menu in hand, I hurry to get him taken care of. “Sorry, West. Didn’t realize you were in my section. What can I get you?”
“I dunno, you haven’t handed me a menu yet.”
He gives me that younger Grady brother smirk, but it does nothing for me. I’m immune to the Grady charm, unlike most women in this town. Probably by extension of my sister sleeping with one, it ruined them all for me. But that’s fine. They’ve both found their women, they’re set.
Huffing, I hand him the menu and stride right back to put in the order from my last table before I forget to. Again.
Mentally, I curse Wilder for somehow managing to order the largest menus the printer had to offer. They look more like road maps.
Weston speaks up before I can get far. “Hey, I don’t wanna ruin your day, but could you bring another? My date will be here soon.”
That might be my first genuine smile all day. Big Momma, here to see little ole me?
“Amelia’s coming?”
His head moves from side to side and I scowl at him, flash of a good mood vanished.
“If you’re seeing someone else, God help you, Weston Alexander Grady, I will grab a knife from the back and find a new, creative use for it.”
Ugh! Now I’m reminding myself of the creative uses of the knives in the back?
My mind is a minefield since that night, nowhere is safe.
Weston must not notice my absolute internal meltdown—thankful for small favors—and reassures me it’s just his mom meeting him here for lunch.
Running through the doorway into the kitchen, I keep my eyes focused on the ticket in my hand, refusing to look up to acknowledge the asshole known as my chef at the station to my left.
Even seeing him plate up at the line is enough to make a blush creep up from my chest to my neck, and I need to get out of here before I turn into a flaming Alexis. Damn my Irish heritage for this complexion that can’t hide a thing.
Head down, I practice the wording the staff are supposed to say when submitting a ticket under my breath.
Table twenty-three, two people, strawberry salad, extra dressing, fries, Bites burger medium, fries.
Rounding the corner, a tall figure blocks my path and I yelp as we collide.
Looking up, my brows knit when I see the distinctive dark hair held back with a black bandana, the tanned olive skin, seasoned with life experience even at his age.
That scar in his brow, his slightly crooked nose, they’re all pieces of evidence that point to the life he lived before he got to the Heights.
They shouldn’t send a thrill through me.
I wish I needed the visual to know who it was I ran into. That there was no magnetic pull when I’m this close to him, commanding me to get closer, to stay a while.
But my sister was always the smart one of us. Me, the reckless. I’ve never done what’s best for me, have I?
Large hands come down on my shoulders, steadying me, and his lips pull up in a smirk. “Boss! To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“To table twenty-three.”
I slam the ticket into his chest and cringe when I notice how hard it is. He doesn’t even flinch at the contact, hand coming up to cup mine, dwarfing it as he secures the ticket.
“And there’s no pleasure about it,” I tack on, before practically sprinting back to the dining room in my haste to get away from the man. I can feel my hair bouncing as I go, like its own character in the sitcom I’m surely starring in right now.
My pulse doesn’t get the memo, blood still pumping at an unhealthy rate as I flurry through the dining room once more. When I go back to take Weston and his mom’s order, he tries to be smart with me.
“You good, Lex?”
Trying not to bare my teeth, I reply, “It’s always a great day at Heights Bites.”
That just leads to Mrs. Grady, I mean Suarez, checking on me in that motherly way of hers that only makes me miss mine.
I’m no expert in HR, but I think full-scale meltdowns are frowned upon in work environments.
I’ll have to consult with Rory about that later, so for now I just tilt my head back to the ceiling and take a deep breath, trying to find my center, or whatever the fuck people who don’t have public episodes over their poor life decisions do.
But when I go to take their order, Weston so kindly points out that I never brought a second menu over.
It’s as I’m contemplating going to babysit Tracy’s grandchild for her so she can come back and do what I am clearly not meant to that West stops me.
“Actually, never mind.”
Two stomps later and I’m back at his table, and his mom nods at him before he speaks. “Whole menu looks great. We’ll take whatever the chef recommends, both of us.”
Great. I’m sure Wilder will have a field day with that. A chance to serve one of the nine dishes he’s tried to get added to the menu. Maybe I should tell him they want the burger.
Weston keeps talking as I contemplate the options. “Just no pine nuts for my mom. She’s got an allergy.”
I’m already grabbing the menu and heading to the kitchen. “Well, now’s your chance. Table sixteen, two people, both want ‘whatever the chef recommends.’” I make air quotes on the words, not bothering to hide my disdain.
He claps his hands together once and points at me. “Perfect! I’ll take care of ’em. Two chef specials coming up. Fire tortellini!”
“Firing tortellini!” Charlie echoes, like he’s a soldier in a trench across a battlefield, not three yards away from his chef, about to pull out some pasta.
At this point, today is just one of those days where a butterfly could land on my head and it would piss me off. There is just nothing good about today.
That’s proven when I walk away but Wilder calls after me. “Boss, can I trouble you to grab a few more steaks out of the walk-in? I’ve got four pans working, don’t want to step away.”
“Sure,” is the word that comes out of my mouth, but I make sure he hears my opposite meaning in the tone.
The freezer. Another place that I can’t go without remembering Wilder breaking down my self-preservation, my common sense, and devolving me into this woman I hate for giving in to him.
It’s not that he’s my staff.
It’s not even that he’s ten years younger than me. Well, maybe it’s a little of that.
It’s that he came into my town, insulted our local culture, thinking he’s better than us because he’s from the big city, and that his way is what should be done around here.
It doesn’t matter that he’s ridiculously hot, has a tongue that should come with a battery, and hands that deserve statues in their honor.
I wanted him from the first time I saw him, and I would’ve happily given into a tryst for however long he stays in town, had he not had that air of too good for here and brought it into my restaurant.
Maybe I’m a little fucking sensitive after what happened in my own family, but I’m real tired of people bringing that shit to the Heights.
If your precious New York City is so great, so much better than our simple life here, why are you here?
I’m not even sure if my mental tirade is at Wilder, or my sister at this point.
But by the time I exit the freezer, steaks in hand, wafts of cold air that look like steam are spewing from my form and follow me as I head back to the dining room to do another round of checks on my tables.
Luckily, the lunch rush is coming to a close, with most checks closed out, and only a few tables left.
When I hear “order up” come from the back of the house, I lock eyes with Wanda and she nods, telling me the ticket is mine.
I envy the way her mind works. Able to keep track of all of her tables, the status of each, staying ahead of her guests’ needs and never falling behind.
Mine is more of a jumble. Like spinning around, trying to hit all the moles with that puffy mallet.
They’re all just there and sometimes one pops its head up to shout for attention, and by the time I take care of it, another one or two tables are poking their heads up too.
Just a constant shitshow, with a dizzy Lexi in the middle of it all.
I much prefer the managerial role to waiting tables. If I had any doubt of that before today, it is now crystal clear.
Having to see Wilder’s smirking face when I pick up their order is the opposite of a cherry on top, it’s finding a roach at the bottom of your sundae. Like breaking your favorite flip flops when your thighs are already chafed. It just makes waiting tables that much more irritating.
So when I drop off the plates to Weston and his mama, rattling off the name of the dish, it’s all I can do to smile at them and not snarl when they mention they didn’t see the dish on the menu.
If I have my way, they never will.
I’m getting a little sick of Wilder proposing a new dish every day of the week. The way he makes a plate for the staff to try, it feels mutinous, getting them all riled up in his favor.
We haven’t even been open a week, for crying out loud.
Can we focus on getting through these opening days, and the soft opening Rory has planned for downtown Smoky Heights?
This is the first time the town has had an actual restaurant for lunch and dinner in almost fifteen years.
Our menu is just fine. We’re never going to be some fancy New York eatery.
My part of the deal was to entertain his ideas, not approve them.
“Lexi!” Charlie’s voice nabs my attention, pulling me from my stew session.
“Yeah?”
“Sorry to bug you, but there’s a delivery here and I don’t know where Chef went.”
Boisterous laughter spilling in from the dining room gives me a good idea about exactly where he went, and my eye twitches at the positive response he seems to be getting from the guests.
How am I the only one in town who isn’t smitten with him?
They aren’t even scared off by his ginormous frame, those intimidating tattoos that trace his fingers, forearms, and peek out of his collar, shadowing his neck and chin?
The man is wrapped in danger, and maybe I thought it was hot the first time I saw him—before he opened his fat mouth—but surely the wholesome people of the Heights should take that as a warning sign?
Where is the self-preservation?
This welcoming Southern hospitality they’re all showing is bullshit.
“CHEF!”
Should probably have considered the few remaining patrons before I let out the beast Wilder brings out of me, but whoops, too late now.
“Coming, Boss!” comes his deep intonation, and he jogs toward the kitchen, a shit-eating grin splitting his face as his footfalls shake the floor.
Pointing to the back door, my glower is enough to tell him to deal with the poorly scheduled delivery.
With those tall, beefy legs of his, it only takes a few strides to cross the kitchen and greet the pot-bellied driver with the bulbous nose in the back.
“What happened to before lunch service?” Wilder growls.
“Hit some traffic today. Do you want the delivery or not?”
“Yeah, fine. You’re lucky I’m on top of my shit and all the orders have been fired already. Let’s do this.”
Rolling my eyes, I head back to check on the last of my tables and check out the remaining guests. Weston’s panicked voice greets me before anything else registers.
“Ma!”
When I dash into the dining room I find him crouched down on her side of the booth, hands on her arms.
“Pen,” she wheezes, face puffy and pale, gesturing toward her pocketbook.
“Call 911!” I holler to the back and run for them.
A blast of wind gusts my back, hair fluttering in my face, and Charlie is by my side.
“What’s wrong?”
“She has an allergy,” Weston says, hands flying through her purse.
“Does she have an epi-pen?” Charlie asks, already reaching for Mrs. Suarez.
Her lips and cheeks have distended, filling out her thin face, but it’s the lack of color in her face that scares me the most.
Man, Rory is really going to have my ass if her mother-in-law dies in my restaurant.
Weston hands Charlie a white tube, and our resident volunteer firefighter-slash-EMT works faster than I’ve ever seen him plate a cold dish in the back to jab our guest right through her pants, administering the medicine.
I’m not sure whose heart is racing faster, Weston, watching his mother fade, Charlie, having to save a woman’s life while he’s supposed to be on the grill, or me, as the owner whose chef couldn’t just stick to the fucking menu and had to do his own thing.
Hands to my cheeks, I focus on breathing as Charlie acts the hero.
In minutes Mrs. Suarez’s eyes look brighter, her breathing less labored, and by the time the flashing lights of the ambulance arrive, her face is less puffy and, aside from seeming slightly put out by the change of plans, she seems mostly normal.
“You tell the chef it was delicious, even if it almost killed me,” she jokes, as she’s being strapped to a gurney. Then she looks at her baby boy and says, “And you better bring that lady of yours to meet me soon.”
That’s the scene Wilder walks in on after he finishes the delivery and comes back into the restaurant to find everyone inside gathered around the front door seeing her wheeled out.
“What the fuck happened?” he asks, face falling.
“Let me guess,” I say, arms folding over my chest. “Your pesto recipe uses pine nuts?”
He nods, understanding dawning across his carved, rugged features.
“It was fantastic, but I don’t think I’ll be ordering it again,” Virginia calls, holding up one arm in a wave as she is rolled through the doors and to the waiting emergency vehicle on the street in front of Bites, where a waiting crowd watches on, likely gathered from every single establishment along Main.
“Just stick to the menu,” I seethe at Wilder, shoulder checking him as I pass him by.
It’s not as easy to ignore as I’d imagined these past weeks when his shoulders slump and he curls in on himself, heading back to the kitchen.
Something way too close to guilt pangs in my gut, and I tell it to pound sand.
“You okay?” I ask Weston, who’s watching through the window as the ambulance drives away, lights blaring, but siren silent.
He takes a deep breath and rolls his head side to side, cracking his neck, before giving me half of one of his trademark smiles.
“Hope you’re gonna comp our check, Lex.”